


The fears that come in the night

by halduronbrightwang



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Violence, War, fears, purge of dalaran
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halduronbrightwang/pseuds/halduronbrightwang
Summary: A world at war has it's terrors, yet somehow the ones that come in the night are the worst of all.





	1. No control (Aniryean)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is more to explore the various nightmares of my OCs, and may be expanded on in the future as needed.

Another long day at work, grueling hard work in the hot Durotar sun and baking inside the poorly ventilated house had left the man exhausted. Once again he was sunburnt and dehydrated but that didn’t matter now- what mattered was the precious opportunity to sleep that laid before him. Alek had long since curled up into the cool sheets of his bed, like most of these summer nights sleeping as bare as possible to fight the heat as a gentle breeze floated in through the window. Aniryean himself stripped down, tossing his oil stained pants aside in a heap with the rest of his belongings. Exhaustion set in the moment the warrior’s head hit the pillow. Woozy from his lack of energy, he didn’t fight as sleep overcame and his vision faded away, replaced by the peace and quiet. 

As if ten years of his life hadn’t happened Aniryean found himself in Netherstorm. Huge arcs of arcane energy screamed across the sky, hundreds of times the size of any lightning storm on Azeroth, where the air wasn’t chocked full of fel. Where the blue skies meant safety and the warmth of the sun, a home to go back to, Outland was the opposite. Moons of distant lost worlds hung in the sky for sunless days and sunless nights all blending together like one long, miserable day one couldn’t escape. 

He scrambled over a rock, the deep violet soil coating it crumbing in his small hands. Just as every time he was forced to carry out the dream the same as always, no matter how much his mind screamed to run, to fight, to do anything but witness what he knew was coming. 

“When will mom get back?” He asked his father, setting up the tent nearby, voice that of when he was only ten years old.

“Some time tonight, long after your bedtime. You’ll see her in the morning.” Younger Aniryean whined that he wanted to welcome her back to the camp, to watch the arcane storm up above with her until he fell asleep, curled at her side. Just as always his father patted him on the head and ushered him to bed, sitting at the small lantern just outside to read.

Neither heard what approached until it was too late. To this day Aniryean couldn’t understand how a machine, thousands of tons of steel and fel, could sneak up on someone. Especially when it stood thousands of feet high, the head of the mechanical monster nearly scraping the magic filled clouds up above. 

“Aniryean, stay there!” Just as before, and every time the memory haunted him, his father reached for his staff and unleashed a torrent of arcane energy at the fel reaver. If he hadn’t it likely never would have noticed them. If he hadn’t, Aniryean may have had a completely different life.

Things moved too quickly, too much at once for his child mind to understand then, instead now as an adult trapped in that nightmare it filled in the blanks. What it filled them with was worse, much worse than the truth that much Aniryean was sure of, but locked in both fear and the restrictions of the dream, he couldn’t do anything but be paralyzed with fear. He watched from under a blanket, heart pounding away at his ribs so hard they hurt, as his father valiantly and foolishly took the beast on by himself.

The inevitable came. A mighty swing of its foot and the fel reaver tossed the mage into the air and the sickening crack of his bones against the rocky basin echoed in the boy’s ears. It was a sound he’d never forget, that one of a person’s skull being split, their spine shattering and evey bone being splintered. The fel reaver let out a screech, the deep sound of twisting and echoing metal as it stomped through the camp. As if insult to injury it nearly crushed him, too small for the thing to even see. When it finally walked over the horizon, it was like things went in reverse, replaying the final moments. 

That sound over and over again.

Not quite a crunch, stronger than a snap. Pieces of bone essentially exploding under the impact and tearing skin like a poorly tanned hide. The broken body of his father lying down in the dirt, hardly recognizable. 

Just like that all the images in his mind were gone. Aniryean’s eyes shot open and he stared at the ceiling, plain, boring, and blank, but his vision shaking with his heaving breaths. It took a moment as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, to remember where he was. The pile of his dirty clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed, his weapons and armor propped against the wall, Alek’s work bag and various engineering books on the end table. Blinking to adjust to the darkness, Aniryean remembered. He was spending the night with the paladin, who’s quiet and steady breathing reminded him he was still there. For but a moment he watched Alek sleep as he wiped off the cold sweat he’d broken into some time during his time plagued with nightmares of his past, wondering if he too had similar ones. 

Memories of battle that refused to be ignored, traumas he hid, things the paladin didn’t yet trust Aniryean to know about him. Or maybe not, Aniryean thought as he watched Alek’s eyes twitch in his sleep, rapidly going back and forth with the occasional twitch of an ear. Alek was still really young by Blood Elven standards, as was he, maybe it was just simply him who was unlucky. The warrior didn’t dwell on it long, instead lying back down and resting his head again his bed partner’s bare shoulder. His skin was warm, not as warm as the bedroom with its stifling heat left over from the day, but enough to be a comfort. Soothing. Something about his freckled skin gave the warrior the same safe feeling of being home, chasing off his worries. The paladin soon rolled over and Aniryean tugged him close, gently enough not to wake but he still let out a quiet mumble as he got into a position comfortable enough to spoon him throughout the night. Perhaps that warm, safe feeling would chase off any more nightmares, at least that’s what Aniryean hoped for as he buried his face in the other’s neck waiting for sleep to take hold once more.


	2. War (Thaelion)

Nightmares for the priest weren’t common, but when he did have them they stuck to a general theme. Patients he wasn’t able to save, ones who’s wounds were too grave or gotten to too late. Ones who’d sought help long after infection had set in and their lives were changed based on how many pounds of flesh had to be carved away just to keep them alive. Usually what haunted him most was the fear in their eyes when they knew that nothing could be done, that they were going to die and it was going to be soon. That it would be painful and without solace. Perhaps worse were the ones who outright accepted their deaths. The ones who didn’t fight at all, ushering their medics to help someone else who could still be saved.

Lately, his nightmares took a different turn. Trapped, between two armies donning red and blue on either side, screaming for the blood of the other. The source of the conflict long since forgotten, just years upon years of reacting to the supposed aggression and crimes of the other side who in turn did just so, creating a never ending cycle of war and death. Some of Thaelion’s more cynical colleagues would joke that they would always be in the job as long as the Horde and Alliance were at war, all in the tiny clinic knowing the only reason they had their jobs was just because of that. Years of seeing the wars, unending and brutal, had turned their humor cynical and sometimes cruel yet it was still better than the truth.

Like many of his recent nightmares, Thaelion stood between two armies. The Alliance to the east, the Horde to the west, but they were already in battle. Huge fel pocked monstrosities tore at the armies, who all around ignored the Legion. They weren't here for their blood, they were here for each other's. Nothing could stop the two armies in their charge, not the demons, not the crowd of civilians caught between, not their soldiers dropping like flies as they were picked off the flanks. 

Any possible escape was blocked by the fighting and bodies of the dead and dying. Thaelion pleaded with an alliance soldier running up to him, donned in Stormwind armor and blade glistening with blood. He tried to back away with his precious cargo wrapped tightly in his arms, begging, pleading, outright groveling that if the human couldn't spare his life, at least spare that of the child in his arms. The soldier seemed to be in a trance, marching forward and knocking him to the ground to fight an orc soldier behind him.

None of that mattered. In his fall Thaelion dropped the bundled up child, his beautiful, darling girl that almost never came to be. She rolled, screaming out for her father, terrified, caught up in the conflict. The priest launched himself out of bed the moment he awoke to her cries. Every part of his mind knew it was just a dream, a horrible nightmare, that she was in no danger, but he rushed to her bedside. Celia squirmed, having undone the blanket he swaddled her in with tears running down her face. As he lifted her from the crib she reached out for him, still crying. Her cries were nothing like that dream, no. She simply needed to be changed, calling for him in the only way she knew how. Thaelion wished with all his heart he never knew what an infant’s screams of terror sounded like. 

As he changed her diaper he thought about the dream he had. It wasn't like the others with long since dead patients crying and weeping about how they couldn't be saved, haunting his nightmares from beyond the grave. It was too real, too close to being an actual possibility for that. Less a nightmare and more a prediction of the future given that war was once more on the horizon. The priest's worries didn't leave him even as he heated a bottle of formula on the stove for his daughter, now cooing in his ear while resting her head on his shoulder. She was changed, quickly fed, and Thaelion was about to put her back in her crib when he noticed that she'd more than filled her last diaper.

Too tired to deal with cleaning the mess at the moment, he took her back to his own room and placed the child on a pillow between himself and Aradar. The paladin stirred, sleepily tugging her closer and smiling when Celia ran her tiny fingers through his hair. In that moment the priest knew even if Celia wasn't his own, Aradar would never allow a situation like his dream to come about. He would sooner give his own life before that happened, die to protect Thaelion’s little girl as if he were her own father. Thaelion sighed as he curled back up in bed with the two, his small family the only thing on his mind.

Dreamless sleep lie ahead, the only sounds the purring cat at the foot of the bed, him and his fiancé’s gentle breaths, and Celia cooing at them until she too slept. 

That is, until an hour later when she got hungry again.


	3. Home Invasion (Matheiel)

The pounding on the door was the first sign of trouble stirring. Talk throughout the day had been about the Sunreavers being kicked out of Dalaran for the incident with the Divine Bell, but the warlock hadn’t worried. Him nor his elderly grandmother were a part of the Sunreavers and never were, they were safe. Their tiny home with the shop below, it would be untouched as would they. Matheiel had curled up in his bed with a demonology tome, turning out the lantern next to his bed thinking of the friends that would be gone in the morning- Surely, the Kirin Tor would just send them through the portals to other Horde cities to carry on their lives there. It would take work to visit them, but they would be fine. Him and his grandmother would be fine. They were okay, they were safe under the violet banner of Dalaran, where they’d lived their entire lives.

They were safe. 

They were safe.

They were safe.

They were supposed to be safe.

They were not.

The young teenager had never witnessed the hatred between the Silver Covenant and the Sunreavers, the screams of terror from the streets below at the early morning’s light a complete surprise. Foolishly, he got out of bed and rushed to the window, brushing aside the curtain. There was blood. There were armed guards in the streets, hauling people away and fighting those who put up a fight. 

He watched in horror as a frostbolt nearly cleaved a shopkeeper fleeing the bank in half, her body lying limp and broken in the street. Instinct took over. Already he knew that Emvie was preparing downstairs, he could hear the summoning going on. A portal opening and the chatter of dozens of imps pouring out of it, ready to be unleashed on anyone who dared open the door. Matheiel himself moved quickly- he was no fighter, but that wouldn’t matter. He dressed himself as fast as possible, some part of his mind hoping the deep purple tabard emblazoned with the Violet Eye thrown over his binder would provide him some safety, at the very least, it and his age might gain some pity from the guards. The rational side of his mind knew surely not, if people were being cut down just outside. 

Whoever started pounding on the door made no attempt to even start with words, the wood splintering from the staff slamming into it. As he ran down the stairs, Matheiel saw his grandmother standing in the parlor, ready to fight. She glanced back at him, a knowing look in her old eyes. 

Matheiel knew it would be the last he’d see her, just as she knew that this would be her last battle.

Emvie turned away, back to the door in the process of being broken down. The flimsy lock wouldn’t hold for long. It took all the resolve he could muster to not turn back as he smashed out the rear window and climbed out over the kitchen counter where he’d just cooked dinner last night. As he landed into the grass behind the apartment, in the garden near the memorial next to the bank, he heard the wrath of an old warlock, an expert in summoning and veteran of war, being unleashed on the invaders. 

Gawking at the damage was all but impossible to not do. Jaina Proudmore herself patrolled the streets, surrounded by her water elementals, forcibly teleporting fleeing citizens away to some place the young blood elf did not know but knew not to be pleasant. Hiding in one of the bushes, he was waiting for the coast to be clear before he’d make a run for it- Krasus’ Landing was far, but his best option.

What he never could have known was that the dragonhawks were already killed, or the ongoing battle taking place in the Broken Tusk left no safe haven. The Underbelly was echoing with the sounds of fighting and screams long before even entering it- his options for hiding growing thinner and thinner, the chances of being seen growing ever higher as he scrambled around the city. Panic had long since set in and rational thought was gone as he tried to return to his home. His grandmother’s mount- a phoenix just as ancient as she was was one of his only options left. He didn’t know how to ride and especially not a war animal, but other than jumping off into the ocean to certain death, there was no other options left. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight he saw, even if he’d known it would happen. 

The dozens of imps Emvie had summoned lay dead in the street, one of the Silver Covenant dead with them, but so was she, her body surrounded by the guards. His escape, Gigi, the massive phoenix, was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash. To make matters worse, he was seen.

He scrambled to his feet, trying to run, but one of the Silver Covenant grabbed the hem of his robe and tripped him with her staff. He tried to fight, he tried to run- shouting and pleading didn’t work either. With a blade pressed to the back of his neck and forced to his knees, there was nothing he could do. 

Everything seemed so face paced. It was as if time had sped up. The blood, spells flying, words yelled, all a blur in that horrid dream of a time passed until he managed to open his eyes. Matheiel’s chest heaved and his blood thundered in his ears for several minutes after he sat up on the couch and tried to calm down. The Purge was years ago and so much had changed since then- since being saved by the Grand Magister at the last minute he had given up the life of a warlock and become a mage, he liked to think he was good at it too, he’d gotten real training to fight even if he hadn’t used it from the paladin he now lived with, Inris himself sleeping in his own room. He was stronger now, having worked to rid the world of the Legion, all his knowledge on demons taught by his grandmother being used against the demons pouring from the Broken Shore, from the Tomb of Sargeras, from Argus.

But still, the memories of the Purge of Dalaran, the loss of his home, his only family, haunted him despite having a new home just down the street, a new family even if it was just a raunchy Blood Knight and his boyfriend. Returning to Dalaran had made it all worse. The nightmares coming more and more frequent. As he walked about the apartment he calmed. Gigi slept on the potted tree by the window as she usually did. Even though she was cut down, she was reborn from her own ashes and managed to find him before he’d fled to Silvermoon City and she stayed with him ever since. Inris’ own pet, a shimmering manawyrm, slept on the cushion on the windowsill as the cool spring air drifted in. All was quiet, all was calm, all was safe. Matheiel gave both the animals a quick pat and quietly peaked into Inris’ room, a habit he’d had for some time now. Any time he woke in the night he’d check on him, check the locks, the windows, any means of entry to the small apartment, then continue to camp out on the couch. 

The paladin slept, his tattooed chest rising and falling steadily, completely oblivious to the nightmares that plagued Matheiel. He shut Inris’ door and returned to the couch, picking up his blanket from the floor. He laid down again but did not sleep, not yet. He pondered the thought on what would happen if the Purge occurred again, what he could do differently. What he would do now he would have thought unthinkable then. 

He knew he would fight. Inris had taught him how to use a sword and he’d practiced sometimes with the man’s polearm when alone, twirling it around himself and trying not to hit any of the furniture. The years that passed he’d studied his spells and grown quick enough in casting he knew first hand he could roast someone alive within their own armor. He knew that Inris himself would fight. Inris had a strong dislike for the Kirin Tor almost but not quite as strong as Matheiel’s own.

Knowing that even if it would be bloody, and that any intruder would surely be killed, Matheiel grew calm and confident in his thought that they would be able to fight off anyone who tried to enter. 

Curled up on the couch, still facing the door, he slept once more.


End file.
